He once fed the scaffold
on Revolution Square,
but now the crowds cackle
at his skull shaved bare,
at his shirt torn and bloody
from the bullet in his jaw,
at his hands worn and muddy
from years burying the Law.

The Reign of Terror
will fade into lore,
with the King of Errors’ head on the floor.
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

They called him "incorruptible,"
the Prince of Anarchy,
but all men grow tyrannical
at the reins of liberty.
The guillotine is power,
its steel a despot's rage;
blood rains down in showers
when democracy's a cage.

The Reign of Terror
will fade into lore,
with the King of Errors' head on the floor.
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

He tries to speak his final words
but his mouth drips off its hinge.
The flesh, ravaged by the birds,
makes even soldiers cringe.
On a plank his body's laid,
the wood dampened by his fear;
The lever's pulled, a falling blade,
and all the people cheered.